


Feature Attraction

by days4daisy



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Drug Use, Other, Post-Star Wars: The Empire Strikes Back, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-26
Updated: 2017-11-26
Packaged: 2019-01-31 22:29:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12691476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/days4daisy/pseuds/days4daisy
Summary: As awful as his situation seems, it could be a hell of a lot worse. Not to say this isn’t bad, because it *is* pretty bad.





	Feature Attraction

**Author's Note:**

  * For [afinch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/afinch/gifts).



Han feels cold.

He's always cold, trapped in this sunless pit, stuttering in and out of sleep, the lingering chill of the hibernation sickness clawing at his lungs. When he was brought out of the carbonite, he couldn’t sit still, chattering so hard that he nearly lost teeth. It's not as bad now, and Han's eyesight is back. He's not sure if he's happy about the latter. He likes having his wits about him, knowing what’s going on, who’s bad in this place and who’s badder. But his eyesight offers too many reminders about the steaming Bantha pile he’s in.

Han doesn’t know what happened to Leia and Luke. Is Leia still in Cloud City, did Vader spring his trap on Luke? How about Chewie and the droids? Is his old pal Lando rolling in riches after playing Vader’s little stooge? Han thinks about them as much as possible. It drives him crazy, but they remind him that there’s a galaxy out there way bigger than Tatooine. As awful as his situation seems, it could be a hell of a lot worse.

Not to say this isn’t bad, because it  _is_ pretty bad.

Han may feel cold for the obvious reason: he’s got next to nothing on. Goosebumps swell fat on his arms and legs, and his nipples are uncomfortably hard. The undergarments he’s been forced to wear are a joke; a gold chain clamps around his waist, leather woven through the links to cover the good stuff. Rusting cuffs bracelet his ankles and wrists, and he remembers the leather collar every time he swallows.

The gag is off for now, at least, but Han knows one off word will get the metal bulb back between his teeth. Jabba’s got a button that shoots it thick down Han’s throat, makes him cough and sputter like a surprise blowjob. He thinks Jabba likes the sounds he makes, or how he looks with his mouth all full. Han’s learning a lot about Jabba’s tics, tacs, and toes. He knew Jabba had his likes, but this is flat-out crazy.

Han still tries to fight, of course. He's outnumbered, and he has no blasters or friends, but Han's temper gets him nice and warm, and the retaliation has been worth knocking his royal highness off-balance a time or two.

Bruises frame Han's mouth from the last time he had the gag in. He’s got scars on his wrists from when he tried to escape a few days ago, the shackles cut right into the skin. Han has scabs on his forehead from where that asshole Fett clocked him with a blaster to get him back under control. He was so close, had Jabba off balance and hands off the leash! Then, the weapon cracked against Han's skull, and everything went dark.

He tries to pretend the cool presence against his back is a wall. A hand cards through his hair like he's some prized pet.

Han has been here so long that Jabba’s clientele no longer finds his condition noteworthy. Some newcomer may stage whisper about Han Solo chained on the Hutt’s floor, but on the whole he's a passing amusement, worth a snicker, nothing more.

The music is loud, the company is drunk, and the smoke from Jabba’s pipe wafts thick and sweet. Han blinks at the assembled, head wearily tipped against Jabba's stomach. Something's not right. The room has a weird, rosy tint to it. He puts more force into blinking, counting seconds between open and closed lids. It's like his brain is trapped in a swampland, sloshing around in his head. The air smells sweet, and Han shivers, trying to breathe through his mouth. His stomach flip-flips knowingly; he's got a bad feeling about this. But hell, at this point what doesn't he have a bad feeling about?

Han would let Jabba cut off one of his hands if he could get off this stone floor. His ass is sore, his back is sore, his neck, his shoulders, his legs, everything. And he's too close to Jabba’s stupid monkey-lizard Crumb. The thing leers at Han with beady eyes, like he’s got a stake in what Han’s showing. Han dreams of the day when he can give the creep a punt down to the rancor pit.

He grunts when a fist yanks his hair back. He’s forced to tip his head, neck stretched tight under the collar. The movement makes him sway; when the hell did he get so dizzy? Han squints up at the wide eyes glowering down at him. From this angle, Jabba seems larger than life. He’s a solid, thick mass of body, mountains of chins and a wide, scowling mouth. Han wants to choke him until his big-ass tongue goes limp.

 ** _Are you bored, my boy?_** The words rumble, low but strong. **_Entertainment can be arranged._**

Han's snarled reply is cut off by a protocol droid, silver, polished to perfection. “The illustrious Jabba,” it announces, “inquires as to your level of interest. He offers to-” To Han's bleary eyes, the thing looks like a slab of diamonds.

“Hey, can opener,” Han cuts in. “Tell this slimy piece of shit he can take his entertainment and shove it where the twin suns don’t shine.”

The droid whirs at him. “I would...prefer not to tell him that,” it states, and shuffles uncomfortably back to a safe distance.

Above Han, Jabba chuckles, a breathy **_ho ho ho_** that makes fresh goosebumps spring to the back of Han’s neck. Nothing good ever follows this laugh. Nothing good happens for Han anymore period, but especially when Jabba’s in a good mood. From this position, Han feels the chortle as much as he hears it, a disconcerting shudder against his spine.

If Han concentrates as hard as possible, he can pretend Jabba's solid presence is a mattress. He can make everyone in this room disappear, it’s just him lying naked and warm in bed. Just any old night, nothing to worry about. Han is alone with himself, as far from Tatooine as a guy can get. He scowls when a shrill cackle cuts into his reverie.

Han squints one bleary eye open and glowers at the monkey-lizard. “Shut it,” he grumbles. Crumb squawks at him angrily. It’s better than the laugh.

Han shakes his head. His chains clank as he pinches a hand between his eyes, trying to rub away the numbness fuzzing the corners of his mind. The cold is giving way to something strange, something warm. Han gulps down a breath. His throat tastes like sand, and lips are dry. Thick, webby fog blankets his brain. He struggles to keep his breathing steady, like he did when he was a week removed from the carbonite. Back then, his lungs burned every time he took a breath, and he wondered if it would ever get better. Maybe it was lethal, whatever happened to him in Cloud City. Jabba would have been pissed, ponying up all those credits for a prize that keeled over as soon as it was taken off ice. Han doesn’t want to die, but he liked picturing the big guy blowing a gasket over splurging on a dead man.

The hand is back in his hair, and Han pretends it’s anyone else. Leia or Luke rubbing it,  Chewie pawing him affectionately, or some rando at a cantina, flirty-grinning and tousling him up. Han melts into his make believe mattress and lets his imaginary friend play with his hair. He opens his legs too, for the imaginary weight between his thighs. It drapes down the front of his briefs - they’re briefs now, not the goddamn showpiece outfit Jabba’s got him in, on display like some feature attraction.

Han should be flattered. He’s too good for Jabba to put a laser through or toss into the sarlacc’s pit. Jabba wants Han right by his side; the infamous Captain Solo, best smuggler the guy ever had. Han isn't the forgettable type, can't be tossed out with some easy death, nope. He’s special, and Jabba wants to parade him around like a prettied up doll. So be it. More time for someone to come for Han, or Han to come up with a way out of this hellhole.

The weight between his legs shifts up and back. Heat cuts through the chill blistered across Han’s skin. Han shivers, uneasy, but it feels good. He sucks down a shaking breath and rocks towards the touch. It rubs him pleasantly, shifts so nice between his thighs. It’s been forever since Han has been touched, reminds him that he’s still capable of feeling something other than cold, sick, and pissed off.

The stroke coils between his legs, and urges him to roll his hips up. Han makes a sound he hasn’t made in a long time, way before he got tangled up with farm kids and princesses. Jabba’s a pile of Bantha shit, but things were a hell of a lot easier back in the day. He and Chewie always had a good meal, warm beds, and credits left over for ship repairs. Han had an ok life before Luke and Leia planted delusions of grandeur in his head. Han was happy being a top notch swindler, wasn't his job to save this dungheap of a galaxy.

The touch between his legs pulses thick and insistent. Han grunts his frustration and grinds against the heaviness. Friction rubs hot between his erection and the stupid outfit Jabba has him in. Han doesn’t want to think about it: what he’s wearing, the chains, or the hand that moves from his hair to his face.

Pressure shifts into him, welcomed by the spread of his knees and the open invitation of his thighs. Han tips his head back, sighing. He remembers the first time he ever felt anything like this. Rogrik, one of the instructors at the Academy. Thick, black mustache and unruly hair. Han stumbled into him at a bar, too many shots in and too young to know better. It was the first time Han wrapped his brain around men being in his queue. A hand found the small of his back at the counter, and Han leaned into it, as drunk off his cologne as he was off the whiskey.

He was a total amateur, laid there while Rogrik laughed kindly, treated him with kid gloves, and eased Han into it. He had a perfect cock, like the thickness Han feels now. Good and hard, inching past the crown. Han blows out a breath, hips rising in approval. He’s so useless with his hands cuffed, so bleary and gone. Han doesn’t want to open his eyes, he knows he won’t like what he sees. So he stays in happier places, falling from bed to bed, or cockpits, or hangars, or even here once. Han made Jabba a fortune off a cargo haul on Phandaar. The Hutt happened to have a stunner from Naboo in house, silk smooth ringlets and a not-quite-shy pink smile. Han knows Jabba was watching the whole time; he kinda got off on the audience, to be honest.

A push, and Han hisses. He’s opened up, filled, weighed down against his bed - still calling it a bed, yeah. A plush mattress, warm, with little heart-shaped pillows and shit. The kind of inn Han and Chewie always wanted the bank to stay in during their smuggling days. The heaviness inside twists slowly. Han's head falls back, soundless and overwhelmed. He feels dizzy and sick, hot and desperate. Han pushes his hips up and rubs on the thickness gliding between his legs. He wishes he could wrap a hand around himself, wishes he could jerk off, get it over with.

Another shift, and the pressure mounts, it feels so _good_. Han is all glaze and feeling, no awareness, no worries. Han's nails cut into his balled hands, he moans and curses like he used to at Lando. Lando, fucking _Lando_ , Han always knew not to trust that swindler; but stars, he knew how to break Han down like kids play. And-

Like this. He was like this. Han gets lost in the rhythm, pressure consuming his over-sensitive cock. He pushes himself into the heaviness, mouth open, sucking air. His orgasm comes on too easy, too fast. He’s reeling, jutting into the thickness draped down thighs. It feels great. He doesn’t want to know why. Doesn’t want to think about the touch swiping at a corner of his mouth, or that booming laugh he knows so well. **_You’re the best, my boy._**

Han hears a shred of accusation in the taunt. He clings to it, it's something he can use. At least Han still has the ability to get under Jabba’s skin.

Han cracks glossy eyes open, and smiles at Jabba’s scowling face. “You, Jabba, are still a wonderful human being,” he slurs, more than happy to let himself fade.

*The End*


End file.
